District Wet Side
by cherrygorilla
Summary: Wet Side Story's history has been changed. The character's lives rearranged. The story of The Hunger Games using Teen Beach Movie characters.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello!**

**So this is my first crossover story!**

**I welcome you if you're a new reader, but if you've read my other story then I'm glad you've returned!**

**Basically, before I start I want to just say a few disclaimers.**

**Yes, this is very much like The Hunger Games, I literally read the chapter and re wrote the entire thing.**

**So, anything that you don't recognise is mine.**

**Also, most of the character's relationships have been changed, such as: Lela and Butchy are no longer brother and sister.**

**I really hope you like it!**

The bed's cold. Well, not at my side. I stretch and see if I can reach out to my little sister's warmth. But she's not there. Instead I end up brushing my hand against the itchy, worn cotton cover of the mattress. I decide that she probably had a bad dream. Through the patchy light I see her snuggled into my mother's side, the creases in her brow a clear give away that she's had a nightmare. But why wouldn't she? Today's the reaping.

Molly's hair just brushes my mother's cheek. When they're sleeping they look at peace. My mother not so defeated, the lines on her face not so prominent. Molly even resembles a fresh daisy, pure and snow-white. Everyone says she looks like my mother, the same dull blonde hair and grey eyes. I can't imagine my mother young though, sometimes its hard to even picture her happy after what happened.

Then there's the scrawniest cat you could possibly imagine clutched to Molly's chest. Dusty, was brought home when she was just a kitten, she was crawling with fleas and constantly clawing at anything she went near. She was named for the colour of her white coat that looked like it had been down the mines, the tips of her fur being black. Her practically none existant nose and mangled eye make her look like she's almost dead, but Molly begged and begged so I eventually gave in to her. I don't know what I did to make the creature hate me, when ever I walk past it glares at me with its eyes that resemble the colour of polluted river water. Maybe it's the fact that I stood on it, or tried to bury it alive. It's not that I hate animals, it's just that the thought of having to feed another living thing left another weight on my shoulders.

I untuck my feet from the partial warmth of the scratchy blanket and place them onto the splintering floorboards. I reach under my bed and pull out my boots. The soft, pliable leather instantly giving my feet comfort. I get dressed and put my hair into a simple ponytail, grab my hunting bag and slip out of the house.

Normally at this time in The Seam, what we call our part of District Twelve, I'd see plenty of coal miners trudging to the take part in the morning shift. The heavy shoulders and ratted hair of the men and women who no longer care how they look, coal dust staining their features and defining their hollow cheeks. Alas, there is not a soul to be seen. The streets completely vacant. The shutters on their ashen houses slammed shut, closing them off from the rest of the world. They can try to sleep in, the reaping isn't until two o'clock anyway.

Our house is on the outskirts of The Seam, making it a lot easier for me to reach the over grown, ragged meadow. I cross the meadow and reach the fence topped with coils of barbed wire that separates the meadow from the woods. The fence encloses the whole of District Twelve. It's supposed to have a current electrical charge, but we rarely get electricity for a few hours in the evening so I can usually touch it. Nonetheless, I still find myself listening closely for the low buzzing of the electrical current. You see, the fence is supposed to protect us from wild dogs or bears that used to terrorise our streets. But thankfully it's silent. So I crawl behind the bush that conceals the gap between the fence and the dusty earth that stretches for about a metre. Although there are many other spots were I could sneak out, this one is the one were I always enter, it has a special place in my heart.

When I get into the thick of the trees, I retrieve a bow and a sheath of arrows hidden in a dry, hollow log and start along a beaten down track of leaves. Even though the fence doesn't have the electricity it's supposed to have, it's very good at keeping the creatures away from District Twelve. Here in the woods they can roam free. Sure there are dangers, but there's also food if you know how to find it. My father knew. He taught me before he died in a mine explosion. He was blown to pieces in the explosion, not leaving anything for us to bury. It was five years ago, I was only eleven, yet I still wake up screaming for him to get away.

Whilst trespassing is forbidden and hunting is paired with a deadly penalty, if people had weapons they'd risk it as well. However I can't imagine anyone daring to venture out with only a knife. My father's crafted bow, made by himself, is a rare treasure. I keep it carefully wrapped in waterproof cover inside the log. He could have made a living selling them, but if the Peacekeepers found out he could have been executed in public. The Peacekeepers rarely pay much attention to those of us who hunt anyway. They want fresh food as much as we do.

In the autumn, a few people dare sneak into the woods to harvest apples but never dare to venture out of the sight of the meadow. Stay close enough to District Twelve to bolt back if they run into a hint of trouble. "District Twelve. A safe place to starve to death," I grumble, quickly glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one heard me. Even out here you worry that people are listening in on you.

I used to blurt out things about District Twelve when I was younger. I'd horrify my mother with the things I would say about the people who run the country. Panem, they're called. They live in the city called the Capitol, it's about as far from here as you can get. Not long after I learnt that I would only get us into trouble so I was taught to hold my tongue. I turned my face into an unreadable mask, making it impossible to read my thoughts. I worked in school made chatted amiably with people in the market and in the Hob I only discussed the trades. The Hob is kind of like the black market, but it's where I make any money I can get. Even when I'm with my mother and Molly, I avoid most discussions. Especially the difficult ones like the reaping, food shortages or The Hunger Games. If Molly ever repeated what I had to say then I don't know what would happen to us.

Between the trees I meet the only person I would ever be myself around. Brady. The weights on my shoulders seem to lift a little and I feel my body heaving a sigh of relief. I pick up my pace so I'm able to reach our place, a rocky over hang that leads out to a lush green valley. It's hidden from view by a clump of bushes covered in berries. I see him stood there, breaking my face into a smile. Brady says he's never seen me smile outside of the woods.

"Hey Lola," Brady greets. My real name is Lela, but when I had first told him it had been barely audible. He thought I'd said Lola and that became his nickname for me from then on.

"Look what I caught." He holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow piercing the centre. I chuckle at this as I take the bread from him. It's baker bread, not the kind we make from our grain rations. I gently extract the arrow and hold the loaf up to my nose. I take in the warm smell and let my mouth water at how good it smells. Bread like this is a rarity, only for special occasions.

"Mmmm, it's still warm," I note. He must have been at the bakery first thing this morning to trade for it. "What did you trade for it?"

"Only a squirrel. I think he was feeling soft today." Brady explains.

"How can you tell?" I question, looking up at him with as much innocence I can afford to show.

"He wished me luck when I left." Brady answered simply.

"Well, everyone takes a little more consideration today." I agree, "Molly left us some cheese." I carefully take the cheese, admiring it as I do so.

"Why thank you Molly. Now we'll feast like we're in the Capitol." This prompts him to fall into the accent held by the people in the Capitol. He mimics Fifi Bouquet, the lady whose trilling giggle can shatter glass, who comes to read out the names at the reaping. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He hops to his feet, grabs a handful of berries from a nearby bush, before tossing one in my direction. "And may the odds-"

I catch the berry and pop it in my mouth. The sweetness exploding in my mouth. "Be ever in your favour!" I finish, using the same amount of mock enthusiasm. Almost anything you say in that accent is funny, I sometimes don't think you can take it seriously. But we have to make fun of the Capitol, the alternative is to be terrified.

I watch as Brady breaks the bread into pieces for us to eat. He could easily be related to me. Well, he doesn't look like me. His blonde hair is practically the opposite of my raven black hair and his honey brown eyes clash with my grey/blue ones. But he looks like my sister and my mother. Most of the families that work in the mines look-alike. But not like them.

That's why they look out-of-place. My mother's parents ran an apothecary business in the wealthier part of the Seam, not that there's much difference. We can't afford doctors, so they're as close as we can get being healers. My mother and father got to know each other when he would sell her herbs he had collected out hunting. She must have fallen for him extra hard to move to the Seam with him. It's what I tell myself when I see her just staring blankly into space as her children starve to death in front of her. I tried to forgive her for my father, but forgiving's a hard thing to do for me.

As I'm thinking, Brady spreads the soft goat's cheese on the pieces of bread, balancing a basil leaf on each as he goes. I decide to go and collect the remaining berries from one of the bushes. We head back to our rock area, we're visible at this angle but it's worth it. We can clearly see down into the valley, the fresh grass, the fish in the river sending rainbows dancing off their silver scales and a light blue sky. A gentle breeze makes the grass sway and I can't imagine a more glorious day. The food's amazing too, the warm cheese slightly melting into the bread and the berries levelling out the taste with just the right amount of tartness. It feels like a holiday, the day off spent roaming the mountains with Brady and hunting tonight's dinner. But it has to end when we have to wait in the square at two o'clock.

"We could go, you know," Brady utters.

"What?" I inquire.

"Leave the district. You and I. We can make it. Living in the woods," he explains.

I don't know how to respond. The idea so insane I can't even form words to respond with.

"I mean, if we didn't have so many kids." Brady adds.

They're not our kids, of course. But Brady's two younger brothers and my little sister. Molly. You might as well put our mothers in that group as well. They couldn't survive without the food we bring home for them. Even so, there are still nights when we have to trade what we've caught for simple things like shoe laces. Those are the nights when we go to bed with our stomachs yearning for food.

"I never want to have kids." The words slip out of my mouth.

"I wouldn't mind it. If I didn't live here," Brady says.

"But you do live here," I argue.

"Forget it." He huffs.

The conversation doesn't feel right. How could I leave Molly? She's the only person I'm absolutely certain that I love. Brady adores his family too. We could never leave, so why are we talking about it? Even in the tiny chance that we did leave...where is all of this talk about having kids coming from? Brady and I have nothing romantic between us at all. He first found me when I was a thin twelve-year-old. Although he was only one and a half years older than me, he already looked like a man. It took us a while to become friends, going from arguing about every little thing to trusting each other.

He's handsome, he's able to hunt and is even strong enough to take on the work in the mines. Brady won't have any trouble having kids if he wants them. The girls are always whispering about him at school. I get jealous, of course, but not for the reason you may think. Good hunting partners don't grow on trees.

"So, what do you want to do today?" Giving him the option of hunting, fishing or gathering.

"Fish. We'll leave our poles at the lake and gather in the woods. Get something good for tonight," he answers flatly.

Tonight. It'll be after the reaping, when people are supposed to celebrate. Many do, relieved their children haven't been selected to die this year. But there are always two families that close their shutters of their ashen houses an try and make the fact that their child has gone sink in.

After a while, we do quite well. The larger predators leaving us alone, easier prey closer. By about eleven o'clock we've caught a dozen fish, collected a handful of greens and a basket of strawberries. I had found the patch where they grew when I was about fourteen. He had placed nets around them to keep the other animals out.

When we're heading back, we stop off at the Hob. The black market operates in a warehouse that was abandoned a long time ago. It used to store coal but now it's transported straight from the mines to the trains that take it to the Capitol. Over time, the Hob took over the place. By this time on reaping day, most people have shut up their businesses. But the stalls are still bustling here. We manage to get some good bread for six of the fish and some salt for another two. Smokey Sally, the knobbly old woman that sells soup takes most of the greens off us in exchange for a few chunks of paraffin. We could get a better deal at other places but you have to make an effort to stay on Sally's good side.

Once we have finished in the Hob, we hurry over to the back door of the mayor's house. He has a particular fondness for the berries and we know he will take at least half of them off our hands. His daughter, Sage, answers the door. She's around my age, I normally see her at school. You'd think that she'd be snooty, but to be honest she's alright. We end up being partnered together a lot at school. Neither of us really has a group of friends, we just keep our heads down most of the time.

Today, she's wearing a beautiful cream dress that looks extremely expensive. Her wavy, muddy brown hair is partly held back and pinned in place with a cream bow. Her Reaping Clothes.

"That's a nice dress." Brady says.

Sage looks over at him, trying to judge whether it was sarcasm or a genuine compliment. Her thins lips clamp together, the corner of her mouth slightly curling up.

"Well I want to look nice for the Capitol if that's where I end up today."

It's Brady's turn to look puzzled now. People didn't usually mess with Brady, so he didn't know whether she was being serious or not.

"You won't go to the Capitol." He answers after a moments pause. His eyes wander down to a gold pin positioned on her dress. It had to be real gold. It's beautifully crafted. If you sold it, the money would buy bread for months. "How many entries do you have?" He continues, "Five? You know, I had six when I was only twelve."

"Brady, that's not her fault." I snap.

"I know. It's just how it is." Brady says.

Sage has grown increasingly comfortable during this discussion. Her face unreadable. She presses the money in my hands and takes the berries. "Good luck Lela."

"You too." I say before she shuts the door in our faces.

We don't say a word as we walk back to the Seam. I don't feel like it's fair that Brady said that to Sage. But he does have a point. The reaping system is unfair, especially on the poorer families like us.

Once you turn twelve, you are eligible for the reaping. That year, your name is entered once. When you turn thirteen, it's twice. By the time you turn eighteen, your name is entered seven times. It's the same for every district in all of Panem.

But there's a cruel twist. If you're starving and hungry, like many people in our district are, you can put your name in more times in exchange for tesserae. A single tessera is a ration of grain and oil for one person, a supply for about a year. If you opt for this, you can enter for each family member. So when I was twelve, my name was put in four times. Once because it was mandatory, and three more times for tesserae for my mother, Molly and I. I' be had to do this every year. So now that I'm sixteen, my name is entered twenty times because the tesserae accumulates. However Brady, who is eighteen and has been feeding his family of five on his own for many years now, will have his name entered forty two times.

Now can you see why someone like Sage who has never had to worry about tesserae can annoy him? It's a very small possibility that Sage's name will be read out today, but it's another story for those of us who live in the Seam. Of course it's not Sage's fault, the rules weren't set by her, or her family, or the other districts, they were set by the Capitol. Still, it doesn't stop us from being a little jealous.

Brady knows that his anger at Sage was not really fair on the girl. It wasn't really for her. I've heard him in the woods when he rants about how tesserae is another thing the Capitol uses to control us and make our lives more miserable. It puts a rift between those of us in the Seam and the people that can quite easily get their food. "The Capitol just wants to keep us as divided as they can," I'd hear him mutter, when no one could hear us. I'd probably hear him today if it wasn't reaping day. If a girl with a golden pin and who has not taken a grain of tesserae in her life had made a comment, which she thought would be harmless.

When I look over at Brady I can see his mind ticking furiously behind a solemn exterior. Whenever Brady gets angry like this, I don't really see the point in it. I don't tell him, because I know what he's saying is right. But it's pointless to be screeching at the Capitol in the middle of the woods. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't make things better. In fact, it scares off game and it doesn't curb our hunger. But I suppose it's better that he does it here instead of back in the district. That's why I let him yell.

We divide what food we have left. Which is: two fish, a couple of loaves of bread, about a handful of the greens, some strawberries, salt and paraffin. We also have a little bit of money too.

"See you in the square!" I chime, trying to sound relatively cheerful.

"Wear something nice," Brady huffs and walks off.

Once I get home, I see that my mother and Molly are both ready. My mother wears a fine dress from the years back when she was in the apothecary business and Molly is wearing my first reaping outfit. It's a short-sleeved, ruffled blouse and a skirt. It hangs off her a bit but it will have to do. My mother's pinned it in place as best as she can but the back of the blouse insists on staying untucked.

I have a bath to scrub all of the dirt from the woods off and wash my hair. I also find that my mother has laid one of her own dresses out for me. It's red with white trimming and white spots. She's even left shoes too, flat black pumps.

"Really?" I croak.

I'm trying not to turn away her offers of help. Before I wouldn't let her do a thing for me. But I know that her dresses from her past mean a lot to her.

"Yes. I'll do your hair as well," she smiles weakly at me. She gently rolls my hair into curls and then towel drys my hair. I can barely recognise myself when I look in the filthy mirror that's propped up on the floor.

"Wow. You look beautiful," Molly breathes.

"And not a bit like myself," I go over to her and envelope her in a tight hug. I know that these next few hours will be torture for her. It's her first year of reaping so she's a safe as possible since I didn't let her take out any tesserae. But she's worried that the unimaginable thing will happen to me. I'm as protective as anyone of Molly, I can't bare to see her upset. But it breaks my heart that I have no power to keep her safe during the reaping.

"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, gently smoothing the blouse back in place at the back.

"Quack," Molly giggles lightly.

"Quack yourself," I laugh. It's a small laugh but they're the only ones Molly can drag out of me. I lightly kiss her blonde hair before speaking again, "lets eat."

I've already put the fish and the greens into a pot to make a stew and I've saved the strawberries and bakery bread for our special dinner tonight. So we make a meal out of the tough tessera bread and milk from Molly's goat. It doesn't matter that it's not much, neither of us can eat at this point.

When it gets to one o'clock, we head for the square. You have to go, unless your practically dead. The officials check that evening to see if that's the case, if not then prison's the place for you.

It's a shame that the reaping has to be held in the square. It's one of the more pleasant places in District Twelve. On a market day in summer, it even has a sort of happy feel about it. But today, besides the colourful decorations, it feels like the complete opposite. The camera men hiding on roofs only dragging the mood down further.

We register in silence. The reaping helps to keep the population tracked. Once you've signed in you're lead to your area. The oldest at the front and the youngest near the back. The areas are roped off and sectioned by age. Girls on one side, boys on the other. Desperate family members fill up around the edges, praying that their child will not be the one whisked away to their possible death. Others make their way in too. The ones who make bets on who will be chosen, whether they will be from the Seam or a merchant or the odds for a certain age group. These people either have no children in the reaping or have just gotten past caring. Let's say they don't always stick to the law either... But hey, I could be shot on a daily basis for hunting so I can't talk. But the officials mouths need food as well and sometimes Brady and I are their only choice.

Brady and I can both agree in an instant that a bullet to the head would be better than starving.

Soon enough, the square is filling up and I'm getting rather squashed. The square's practically fit to burst trying to hold District Twelve's population of roughly eight thousand. The people who are late gather in the streets to watch the live televised event that is broadcast on huge screens for them to watch.

I find myself in the midst of girls my age who all exchange a brusque nod before averting their eyes to the stage that has been set up in front of us. On it are three chairs, a podium and two large glass balls. The glass balls contain slips of paper with children's names. One for the girls, and one for the boys. I swallow a lump in my throat is I think of the twenty slips of paper with Lela Everstone carefully printed on them.

Two chairs are filled on the stage. One by mayor O'Brian, Sage's father, a mountainous man with a receding hairline. The other seating Fifi Bouquet. She's our escort, straight from the Capitol. I can barely ignore the garish magenta lipstick, puffed lavender hair, stiff powder blue dress and fake eyelashes that are so long they remind me of butterflies. They mumble something to each other and look in dismay at the empty chair.

The clock chimes two and the mayor rises from his seat and makes his way over to the podium. He tells us the same story he does every year. About the history of Panem and how it was previously known as North America. He rolls off the numerous droughts, floods, other natural disasters and wars that left Panem to rise from the ashes. A beautiful Capitol enclosed by thirteen other districts. Bringing peace to it's citizens. Later are the Dark Days, when the districts rose up against the Capitol. Districts One to Twelve lost their battles and District Thirteen was totally destroyed. The Treaty of Treason keep us in order with new laws and helps us to remember that the Dark Days must never happen again. That's where we got our yearly reminder, The Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games are a simple concept. As punishment for the uprising, each district must provide two tributes, a boy and a girl to take part. The twenty four children are taken into a vast arena that can inhabit anything from a burning desert to a barren ice land. The tributes must fight to death over a few weeks and at the end there is one remaining victor.

I guess it's the Capitol's way of reminding us that we are completely under their control - making us watch children from our own district die. That we would have no chance against them if we were to start another uprising. The Hunger Games are their way of saying, "look, we can take your children away from you and sacrifice them. But there's nothing you can do about it. And if you try, you'll be completely obliterated like District Thirteen."

To make matters worse, the Capitol treats The Hunger Games like a sporting tournament. The winner goes back to their district to live a life of relaxation. The district will also be showered with gifts, which are mostly food. For the rest of the year the Capitol will send them plenty of food, sometimes even sugar, while the rest of us scrounge for food.

"It's a time for thanks and for remembrance," the mayor says.

He then proceeds to read out the list of District Twelve winners. Over seventy four years, we've had two. Only one is alive, Barnaby Murtens, a man you will usually find blindly drunk. He shouts something and stumbles across the stage before slumping down in the third chair. Today, he's very drunk. The audience gives a polite cheer, but this only confuses Barnaby. He leans over to Fifi and tries to give her a hug, which Fifi almost fails to deflect.

The mayor looks utterly embarrassed. The reaping gets televised and watched all over Panem. So right now, District Twelve is the laughing stock of the country and he knows it. Luckily, he tries to get things back on track by introducing Fifi Bouquet.

As perky as ever, Fifi scoots over to the podium and recites her usual, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!" She finishes with a flourish and her hair slightly off centre. I'm guessing that this is because it's probably a wig and she's just been harassed by Barnaby.

She then goes on to say how honoured she is to be here. That's a lie though because everyone knows that she wants to get moved up to a better district. One with proper victors. Not ones who grab you in front of the entire nation and are blindly drunk.

Through the crowds I see Brady looking back at me, the traces of a smile lingering by his lips. At least this reaping is a little more entertaining. But my mind wanders back to the glass balls, and how forty two of them have Brady's name on them. I can tell he's thinking the same because his expression dulls and he turns away. The odds are definitely not in his favour. I don't want to see him like this. I wish I could just tell him, "but there are still thousands of other slips."

It's finally time for the reading. "Ladies first," Fifi chirps, like always. She totters over to the glass bowl that's filled with the girl's names. She swirls her hand around on the surface before delving her hand in and picking out a name. The crowd takes a collective breath and I swear it's so silent you could hear a fly sneeze. I'm just desperately hoping that it's not me, it can't be me, it won't be me.

Fifi skitters back over to the podium, unfolds the slip of paper and clearly recites the name. And it's not me.

It's Molly Everstone.

**I really hope you liked it!**

**Please give me an opinion of what you thought!**

**Hopefully I'll be updating every other Sunday, because it does take quite a while to write the chapters!**

**So my next update will be on the 18th of May!**

**Thank you for reading and may the odds be ever in your favour!**

**-cherrygorilla**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! **

**I'm back, like I promised!**

**Here's the chapter!**

I remember once when I was sat in a tree, waiting for game to wander by. It ended with me dozing off and falling three metres onto my back. The impact had knocked every single breath of air out of me, I lay there struggling to even breathe.

That's how I feel now, unable to breathe or speak. Totally stunned as the name ricochets around my brain. Someone grips my arm, a boy from the Seam, apparently I started to fall and he caught me.

This isn't real. This is a dream. How can it be real? Molly had one slip of paper from thousands! Her chances of getting picked were so tiny that I didn't even think I would need to worry about her. But I'd done everything right. I'd taken all of the tesserae and refused for her to take any. She had one slip. One slip out of thousands of others. The odds had definitely been in her favour. But that didn't matter now.

Around me, the crowd started murmuring discontentedly, as they usually did when a twelve year old got picked. It just wasn't fair.

When she passes me I can see that the colour has drained from her face and her hands have curled into tight balls at her side. She takes slow, rigid steps forward, as if giving herself time for things to set in. But my eyes flit over to the back of her. The blouse has untucked itself again at the back. This little part of her, the ducktail of the blouse, that brings me round and lets a cry escape my throat.

"Molly!" My voice sounds strangled. "Molly!" I don't have to push my way through the crowd, the other kids just step aside and make a clear pathway. I reach her just before she reaches the steps of the stage. With one move of my arm I push her behind me and hurtle forwards.

"I volunteer!" I cry, the strain showing in my voice. I take a second to compose myself before speaking again, "I volunteer as tribute!"

There is a few baffled faces on the stage and confused murmurings running through the crowd. District Twelve hasn't had a volunteer for as long as anyone can remember and the system has become a little rusty for us. The rules are that once either a girl's name has been chosen or a boy's name then he or she can step forward and volunteer. In some districts where winning is such a great honour, people are willing to risk their lives to go and volunteer. That's when it gets complicated. But here in District Twelve, where the word tribute is usually associated with the word corpse, volunteers are pretty much non existent.

"My oh my!" Fifi breathed in surprise, before she quickly returned to her snooty self, "but I do believe that we have to introduce the tribute before we ask for volunteers, so...um..."

"Just leave it," The mayor says in a hushed voice. As I look at him, he looks back at me with a thoughtful expression. I notice that he vaguely recognises me. I'm the girl who brings him strawberries. The girl who his daughter may have passed pleasantries with. The girl who was stood, clustered with her mother and sister. She, the oldest sibling, was being presented with a medal of valour for her father. Blown apart in a mine. But does the mayor really remember all of that, or is it just a vague recognition?

"Let her come forward," he says, a little more gruffly.

I can hear Molly screaming behind me, her ear splitting cries hysterical. Her thin arms come and wrap around my waist like I'm trapped. "No! Lela! No! You can't go!"

"Molly, let go," I say roughly, because this is upsetting me and I'm not about to cry. When they televise the reapings tonight, people will take note of my tears. They'll make me look weak. Making me an easy target. So this time I'm more harsh, "Let go!"

I feel something removing the little limpet I call a sister from my waist. I look back and see that it's Brady. "Up you go Lola," he says, his voice fighting to keep steady as Molly thrashes in his arms and the realisation of what I was doing dawning on him. He takes Molly away from the stage and gives her to my mother, who she latches onto almost just as quickly.

"Brava! Brava!" Fifi chimes, "that's the spirit of the games!" You can tell she's excited to be having something interesting going on in her district for once. "Now, what's your name?"

I swallow and rasp out the answer. "Lela Everstone."

"I'll bet my buttons that that was your sister, am I right?" She tinkles.

I nod tersely, my face not breaking from it's emotionless mask.

"Well we wouldn't want her stealing all of the glory now would we? Let's all give a hand to our newest tribute!" Fifi gives a grand gesture to me and waits for the applause that never comes.

No one claps. Not even the ones with betting slips. Not even the ones that have gone past caring. No one claps.

Possibly this is because they recognise me from the Hob, or they knew my father, or they have encounter Molly, who no one can help but love.

So they perform the boldest move of protest they can afford to give. Silence. This signals that we don't agree with this. We don't think that any of this is fair.

Yet something unexpected occurs. It's unexpected for me because I never pictured District Twelve as somewhere that cares about me. But it appears like I've shifted their opinion after taking Molly's place, I've done something precious. Slowly, one by one, every member of the crowd presses their three middle fingers on their left hand to their lips and hold them up to me. It's an old symbol used by our district, mainly used at funerals. It's a gesture of thanks, of admiration, a way of saying goodbye to someone you love.

This move threatens to break the barrier of tears, but luckily I'm saved by Barnaby choosing this opportunity to come stumble on stage to congratulate me. "Look at her! Look at this one!" He slings his arm around my shoulder.

He's oddly sturdy for such a drunken wreck. "I like her!" His breath stinks of liquor and I can't recall the last time any new that he bathed. "Plenty of…" he paused to think of the suitable word, swaying slightly as he tried to keep his balance. "Spunk!" He staggers backwards and storms towards the front of the stage. "More than you!" he screamed, pointing down the camera lens. I can't tell whether he's talking to the audience or if he's drunk enough to be ridiculing to Capitol. But I don't get the chance to find out because he stumbles off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.

I'm grateful of the diversion though, because with the cameras trained on his I can let out the sob that's been sticking in my throat since I stepped onto the stage. I clasp my hands together and avert my eyes to the hills I had climbed this morning with Brady. My mind wanders to the thought of going…leaving the district with him… But every time I question my decision, I remind myself that I made the right one by staying here. After all, who else would have volunteered for Molly?

"What an eventful afternoon!" Fifi gasps, trying to get things moving again as Barnaby is taken away on a stretcher. She adjusts her lilac wig, which has veered off to the side of her head. "But there's more to come! I think it's time we picked our male tribute!" Since she's trying to keep her hair do in place, she shuffles over to the glass ball containing the boys' names with a hand resting against her head. She snatches up the first piece of paper she can find and hurtles back to the podium. I barely get chance to pray for Brady's safety before she announces the name. "Tanner Meddark."

Tanner Meddark?!

_Oh no, _I think. _Not him. _I know the name, but I've never directly spoken to its owner. Tanner Meddark.

The odds are not in my favour today.

My eyes follow him as he walks towards the stage. Medium height, strong build, slightly quiffed, golden brown hair. The reality of the moment is slowly dawning on him, he's fighting to remain emotionless but I can see the scared look prey often have in his ocean blue eyes. Yet he stays calm and takes his place on the stage.

Fifi asks for volunteers, but no one comes forward. Tanner has two older brothers, I've seen them in the bakery, but one is probably too old and the other just wouldn't. This isn't unordinary. Family bonds can only stretch so far on reaping day. What I did was pretty extreme.

Mayor O'Brien begins to read the Treaty of Treason as he does every year –it's a requirement- but I'm not listening to a word of the dragging speech.

_Why does it have to be him? _I try to convince myself that it doesn't matter but it's all I can think about. Tanner Meddark and I aren't friends. We don't speak. We barely acknowledge each other's existence. Our only interaction happened years ago. He probably doesn't remember it, but I always will…

It was during a very tragic time. My father had died in the mine explosion only three months before in the coldest January anyone could remember. The pain of his death had passed but the torture of his loss would sneak up me from no where, my body convulsing with sobs and howls. _What happened? _I would call out in my head. _Where did you go? _To my disappointment, I never got a reply. Or course, it would be impossible for me to, and I knew that.

The district had given us a little amount of money as a repayment for his death, the money was to get us through the allowed time of grieving. A month. After that my mother would be expected to get a job. But she didn't. She'd just sit there or, more often than not, lay under the blankets on her bed, her eyes staring into nothingness. Sometimes she'd get up, as if possessed by the urge to move, but would only collapse back down again moments later. No matter how much Molly begged her, nothing seemed to have any effect.

I was petrified. Now I realise that my mother was probably deep in a world of depression and sadness, but back then all I knew was that I had not only lost my father, but also my mother. So at the age of eleven, with Molly being only seven, I took over the family. I didn't have a choice. I bought food and cooked it for us, all whilst attempting to keep Molly and I looking presentable. If the district ever found out that my mother wasn't able to care for us anymore, they would have taken us away from her and put us into the community home. That's the last thing I wanted. I'd seen the home kids at school. The way they hunched their shoulders and the mixture of sadness and anger in their eyes. It was as if they had no hope. I couldn't let Molly become like them. Innocent, petit Molly who insisted on braiding our mother's hair before going to school, who still cleaned our father's shaving mirror every night to keep the coal dust that settled everywhere in the Seam off. The community home would smother her. So I kept our problem a secret.

But the money soon ran out which lead to us gradually starving to death. I just had to keep willing myself to keep going. Hold on just until May. On the 8th of May I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the vital grain and oil rations. But there were weeks to go, and we could all have died by then.

Starvation's a common fate here in District Twelve. Victims are usually older people who can't get work, children from a family with too many mouths to feed or ones who have been injured in the mines. You see them struggling around the streets but then one day you see them propped up against a wall or lying in the meadow. Sobs echo from houses and the peacekeepers come to collect the bodies. Starvation hasn't officially been deemed the main cause of death, that being flu or pneumonia, but that doesn't fool any one.

The afternoon of my encounter with Tanner Meddark was pretty bleak. The rain was pouring down in relentless, freezing cold sheets. I was on my way back from the market, after unsuccessfully trying to get rid of some of Molly's tattered baby clothes. Although I had ventured into the Hob many times with my father, I was too nervous to go in by myself. The icy cold rain had penetrated my father's hunting jacket, which left me shivering and soaked. For three days straight we had been living on boiled water and a few dried mint leaves I had found at the back of the cupboard. By the time the market had closed I was trembling so much I dropped the bundle of baby clothes in a puddle. I was too scared to bend down and pick them up, because I thought that if I did I would probably fall over and not be able to get back up. It didn't matter anyway, no on wanted them.

I couldn't bring myself to go home. Besides, at home was my mother with her distant stare and Molly with her bony frame and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room, filled with the faint smoke of our fire fuelled by damp branches I had scavenged from the edge of the woods once our coal supply had run out, without anything.

I didn't realise where I was going until I recognised that I had stumble down a muddy lane behind the main shops where the wealthy people bought their goods. The owners live above their establishments, so technically I was in their back gardens. I remember a few empty flower beds, a couple of goats in a pen and a sodden dog which was tied to a post and slumped in the sloppy mud.

Stealing is banned in District Twelve. Forbidden and punishable by death. But my food starved brain was actually considering it. If I could find anything in the rubbish bins, a bone from the butcher's, some rotten vegetables from the grocers, something to curb my appetite, then I would be happy. But much to my luck, the bins had just been emptied.

When I passed the bakers, the scent of the baking bread was so good it was making me feel light-headed. The ovens at the back of the store spewed the glowing, orange light out of the open kitchen door, providing an welcoming warmth that drew me in. I just stood there, taking in the delicious smell before the freezing cold rain shocked me back to reality. I prised the lid off the bakery rubbish bin and found it spotless, much to my disappointment.

But a woman screaming insults at me broke me away. Screaming that she was sick of the mangy kids from the Seam searching through her rubbish bins and how I should move along before she called the Peacekeepers on me. I had no defence against her harsh words so I carefully placed the lid back on the rubbish bin and moved away. That's when I saw him, peeping out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him plenty of times at school since he was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He always hung out with the town kids so how could I know his name? His mother went inside but he must have been watching me trudge behind their pig pen and slouch by their withered apple tree. That's when it hit me that I'd have nothing to take home to my family again. I crumple to the ground, kneeling by the tree's gnarled roots. It was too much. I was too weak and too tired, oh so tired.

_Let her call the Peacekeepers on me. Let them take me to the community home. _I thought. _Or better yet, just let me die here in the rain._

A crashing sound echoed from the bakery followed by the sound of a smack and the woman shouting. I tried to lift my head to see what was going on, but it felt like my skull was filled with bricks. Feet pounded along the ground, the ground sloshing around them. _It's her. _I thought. _She's coming to drive me away. _But it wasn't her. It was the boy. He carried to loaves of bread in his arms that I'm guessing had fallen into the fire judging by their blackened crusts.

"Feed them to the pig you idiot! I don't care! No one will buy burnt bread!" His mother was yelling furiously at him as he began to tear burnt hunks of bread up and toss it into the pen. Back in the shop, the door bell signalled that there was a customer, so his mother turned her back to serve them.

He never even looked at me, but I looked at him. The bread he was holding and way his cheek had swelled with a red imprint. What had she hit him with? My parents had never once hit Molly or I. The boy dared a glance back towards the bakery, to check that the coast was clear and then turned his attention back to the pig. The next thing I knew, a loaf was flying in my direction and then the other. Then he was off, splashing through the mud and slamming the bakery door behind him. I just sat there in disbelief. The loaves were perfectly fine, apart from the burnt areas, but they were fine! Did he intend to give them to me? He must have. They were resting in front of me after all. Before anyone could see what had happened I stuffed the loaves underneath my jacket and hurried, as fast as I could, away. The warmth of the bread blistering my skin, but I just held on tighter.

By the time I had reached home the loaves were significantly cooler, but the insides were still packed with heat. I dropped them on the table and Molly instantly grabbed for a piece. But I made her sit, I got my mother to the table and poured out some tea. I scraped the ashes off the bread and the sliced it up. We ate an entire loaf of the hearty bread, slice by slice.

After I had put my clothes to dry by the fire and crawled into bed to fall into a peaceful sleep, I woke up the next morning and a thought occurred to me. Maybe he burned the bread on purpose. Knocked the bread into the coals so that the flames licked at the crusts, knowing he would get punished and deliver them to me. But I buried the thought. It must have been an accident. If it wasn't, then why would he have done it? He barely knew me. Still, throwing me the bread was an enormous act of kindness that would surely result in another pounding if found out. So why would he have bothered?

We ate more slices of bread for breakfast before going to school. It was as if spring had arrived over night. Warm air and fluffy clouds. I passed the boy in the corridor, his cheek swollen and his eye had blackened. He didn't acknowledge me since he was surrounded by his friends. But when I collected Molly later that afternoon and made my way across the school yard, I felt his eyes on me. I looked up at him and our eyes locked for a moment, then he turned his head. I dropped my gaze, slightly embarrassed and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A light switch flicked on in my head and I remembered the days of hunting in the woods with my father. I knew how we were going to survive.

To this very day I still make the connection between this boy, Tanner Meddark, the bread that gave me hope and the first dandelion that helped me to realise that I wasn't doomed. And on more than one occasion I've found his eyes tracking me, only for them to flit away when I would notice. I can't help but feel like I owe him, a thing I dislike. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point I'd be feeling a lot less conflicted right now. I'd thought about doing so on many occasions, but never took the opportunities. And now, a new one will never arrive. Because we're going to fight to the death in an arena we'll be thrown into. What I'd like to know is how I'm going to be able to work a 'thank you' into a conversation by then. I can't exactly see how I can seem sincere when I'm about to slit his throat. Mayor O'Brian finishes the Treaty of Treason and motions for Tanner and I to shake hands. His hands are as strong and warm, much like those loaves of bread. Tanner locks his eyes with mine and he gives my hand a gentle, yet reassuring squeeze. But I tell myself that it's probably just a nervous spasm or something.

_Oh well. There will be twenty four of us. The odds of someone else killing him are higher than the chance I would have to kill him. _The thought makes me feel a little better. But then again, the odds haven't been very dependable lately.

**I really hope you liked it!**

**I'll next be updating on the 1****st**** of June!**

**I'd like to say thank you to my four reviewers: SunBlazer15, RossLynch4ever, DynamicGiraffe & TeenBeachGirl194!**

**You're amazing!**

**Thank you for reading and may the odds be ever in your favour!**

**-cherrygorilla**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! **

**I hope you're having a good day!**

**Today is the 1****st**** of June which means that it's my birthday in six days! Yay!**

**Anyway, update time! **

**Update: This week I went to my first concert and loved it!**

**That's pretty much the most exciting thing that I've done because for the rest of the time, I was revising for my exams.**

**But, enough of my life, here's the next chapter!**

The anthem ends and almost immediately we are taken into custody. A bunch of Peacekeepers marches us into the Justice Building, they didn't like handcuff us or anything though. I've never seen a tribute try to escape before but apparently it's happened in the past.

Once we get inside, I'm directed to an empty room and left alone. It's probably the most expensive looking room I've ever been in. With thick, plush carpets and velvety couches lining the elaborately wallpapered walls. I've seen velvet before on the collar of a dress my mother owns. I keep tracing my fingers along the material when I sit down. It seems to put my mind at ease as I try to figure out how I'm going to handle the next hour. The time which is allocated for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. I'm not going to let myself leave this room looking upset, with streaming eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Tears are a no-go since there will be even more cameras at the train station.

Molly and my mother come first. Molly reaches out to me as I lift her onto my lap, she wraps her arms around my neck and rests her head on my shoulder. It's just like she did when she was little. My mother holds the both of us and we sit like this for a few minutes. Not saying a word. Then I start to explain how to do everything that I do for them, knowing I won't be around to do them anymore.

I order Molly not to take any tesserae, it's not worth it. They can get by if they're responsible, selling the milk and cheese from Molly's goat and saving the payments from my mother's small apothecary business for people in the Seam. Brady can get her the herbs that she doesn't already grow, but I say that she must be explain in great detail what the herbs look like since he's not as familiar with them as I am. He'll also bring them food – we made a pact to do so a few years ago – and won't ask for much in return, but they should probably show their thanks by giving him some milk or medicine once in a while.

It's no use trying to tell Molly that she should learn to hunt. I tried to teach her a few years back and it was a disaster. She is absolutely terrified of the woods and every time I would shoot something she would get all weepy and try to persuade me to take it home and that if we were quick enough she might be able to heal it. But at least she does well with her goat, so I try to look at the positives.

When I'm done lecturing Molly on fuel, trading and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grip her shoulder. "Are you listening to me? Listen to me." She stiffly nods her head, alarmed at my forcefulness. By this I can judge that she knows what's coming. "You can't zone out again," I say.

My mother's eyes drop to the floor. "I know. I won't. I couldn't help what-"

"Well, you'll have to help this time. You cannot just blank out and leave Molly alone. There is no me anymore to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what the outcome is. Whatever you see on the screen, it doesn't matter. You've got to promise me that you'll push through it!" My voice has risen to a pained shout. It's filled with all the anger and all the anxiety that I felt during her abandonment.

She wrenches her shoulder out of my grip and looks me in the eye, full of her own anger now. "I was ill. I could have treated myself if I had the materials I have now."

The part about her being unwell may be true. I've seen her bring people home who have been immobilized with depression in the past. Maybe it is an illness, but not one we can afford now.

"Then do it. And take care of her!" I exclaim.

"I'll be alright, Lela," Molly says, enclosing my face in her hands. "But you have to take care too. You're ever so brave and quick. Perhaps you could even win."

I can't win. Molly must know that deep down. Most of the competition above and beyond my abilities. Kids from the wealthiest districts, where winning is an enormous honour, who have trained their whole lives to be picked for the Games. Boys who tower over me at two or three times my size and girls that know twenty different ways to kill with a knife. Of course, there'll be people like me too. The ones to get out-of-the-way before the fun begins.

"Perhaps," I mumble. After all, I can't tell my mother to carry on when I've pretty much given up on myself. Anyway, it's not in my nature to go down without a fight, even when the circumstances are bad. "Then we'd be as rich as Barnaby."

"I don't care about being rich. I just really want you to come home. You will try won't you? Please, try? Really, really try?" Molly presses, her little face becoming desperate.

"Really, really try. I swear," I agree. And I know, for Molly's sake, that I'll have to.

And that's when a Peacekeeper appears in the door way, telling us that our time is up. Then we're hugging so hard that it hurts and I just keep repeating, "I love you. I love both of you." And they're saying it back to me before the Peacekeepers order that they leave and the door shuts behind them. I bury my head in one of the silk cushions, pretending to myself that it will help to block everything out.

I hear someone else come into the room and I lift my head to see who it is. I'm a little shocked to find that it's the baker, Tanner's father. I can't believe that he's come to visit me. Anyway, I'll be trying to kill his son soon. But we do kind of know each other, he knows Molly even better.

When Molly sells her goat's cheese at the Hob, she always set's a couple aside for him and he gives her a large amount of bread in return.

We always wait until his horror of a wife is gone when we trade with him since he's so much nicer. I'm sure that he wouldn't have hit his son like she had over the burnt bread. But I have no idea why he's come to see me.

The baker sits on one of the luxurious chairs, looking rather ungainly as he does so. He's a towering, strong-shouldered man who's covered in burns and scars from years of working at the ovens. I have a feeling that he's just said goodbye to his son.

He takes out a crisp, white, paper package and hands it to me. I unfold the paper and see cookies, something we can never afford.

"Thank you," I say, trying to be polite. The baker's not very talkative most of the time and today it seems like he has no words at all. "I had some of your bread this morning. My friend Brady traded a squirrel with you for it." He nods in acknowledgement, remembering the exchange. "Not one of your best trades." I say.

He shrugs, as if he couldn't care less.

I can't think of anything else to say after this, so we sit in silence until the Peacekeeper comes. He clears his throat as he gets to his feet, "I'll take care of the little girl. I'll make sure she's eating."

I feel as if the weight on my chest has lightened a little. People can deal with me, but people genuinely like Molly. Maybe enough people will like her to keep her alive.

My next guest is a surprise too. Sage breezes into the room and makes her way over to me straight away. She's not upset or a bit vague, but she does surprise me with the urgency in her voice.

"When you're in the arena, they let you wear one item from your district. Something to remind you of home. Could you please wear this?" In her hand is the circular gold pin that she had worn earlier. I hadn't really paid much attention to it before, but now that I'm looking closer I see that it is a bird in flight.

"Your pin?" I question. To be honest, wearing something from my district is the last thing on my mind.

"Here, I'll put it on your dress for you," Sage doesn't wait for any sign of indignation and leans over and pins the bird on my dress. "Can you please wear it Lela?" She begs. "Promise?"

"Yes," I say. Cookies. A gold pin. I'm getting all sorts of gifts today. Sage gives me another. A tight hug before she sweeps out of the room. When she's gone, I'm left by myself thinking that possibly Sage was my friend.

At last, Brady's here, there's never been anything romantic been Brady and I but when he opens his arms I don't hesitate to run into them. I know his body – the way it moves, the faint aroma of wood smoke, I even recognise his heart beat from quiet hunting days in the woods – but this is the first time I really feel it, sturdy and muscled against my own.

"Listen," he says, his voice not much louder than a whisper. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you've got to get a bow. It'll be your best hope."

"Sometimes they don't have bows," I say, remembering the year that there were only spiked maces, leaving the tributes to batter each other to death.

"Then make one," Brady presses. "It'd be better than not having one at all, even if it's just a weak one."

I've tried making my own replicas of my father's bow, but they didn't turn out very well. It's hard. Sometimes my father would have to scrap his own.

"I don't even know if there's going to be wood." One year the tributes were put into a desert wasteland with nothing but boulders and dead plants. I hated that year especially. Most of the tributes were either bitten by poisonous snakes or went crazy from dehydration.

"There usually is," Gale says. "after the year where about half of them caught frostbite they've put it in."

It's true. One of the years we spent The Hunger Games watching tributes freeze to death at night. You could barely see them, they curled into balls to try to keep warm since there was no wood to make fires or torches. The Capitol supposedly found it very boring with all the silent, bloodless deaths. Since then, there's always been wood to make fires.

"Yeah, mostly there is some," I agree.

"Lela, just think of it as hunting. And you're the best hunter I know," Brady says.

"But it's not hunting. They're armed and can think for themselves," I argue.

"You can. Plus, you've had practice," he says. "You know how to kill."

"Animals. Not people," I counter.

"How much more different can it be?" Brady asks, grimly.

It's horrible because if I can forget that they're people then it really won't be different at all.

The Peacekeepers seem to come back too soon and Brady requests more time. But they're dragging him away and I start to fill with panic. "Brady, whatever you do, don't let them starve!" I cry, clinging onto his arm.

"I won't! You know that I wouldn't! Lela, remember I-" but the Peacekeepers jerk us apart and slam the door in my face. Now I'll never know what he wanted me to remember.

The ride from the JusticeBuilding to the train station isn't very long, but I've never ridden in a car before. I've barely been on a wagon. In the Seam, we get around on foot.

I was right to tell myself not to cry because the station platform is packed with reporters and cameras tracking my face. Yet I've had plenty of practice to keep my face blank of emotion so that's what I do now. I peep at a screen that's airing my arrival live and am satisfied to see that I look almost bored. Tanner on the other hand has definitely been crying, but he's not trying to cover it up which is strange. I start to wonder if that is going to be his strategy in the Games. To seem weak and defenceless to the other tributes, but come out fighting once they think that he's no competition. This worked well for one girl a few years ago from District 7, Ariana Morris. She appeared like such a whimpering scaredy cat, that no one bothered about her until there were only a few tributes left. It turned out she was able to kill quite brutally. It was quite clever how she played it. But this strategy seems a little strange for Tanner Meddark since he's a baker's son. After many years of being well fed and lifting heavy trays of bread around he's become strong and broad-shouldered. It's going to have to take days and days of bawling to over look him.

We are made to stand in the doorway of the train whilst the cameras snatch images of us, then thankfully, the doors close behind us. The train starts to pull out of the station almost immediately.

The speed makes my breath catch in my throat. Obviously, I've never been on a train, because you cannot travel between the districts except for official duties. Well you could travel, if you wanted to get arrested. For us in District Twelve, it's mainly just coal that we send. But this is no coal train. This is one of the Capitol trains that travel at the high speeds of 250 miles an hour. We'll probably reach the Capitol in just less than a day.

In school, they tell us that the Capitol was built in a place that was once The Rockies and District Twelve was constructed in Appalachia. They even mined coal here hundreds of years ago. That's probably the reason that the miners have to dig so deep now.

It always end up coming back to coal at school. Besides that basics like reading and mathematics, most of our education is coal related. Apart from the lecture on the history of Panem we have every week. It's just a lot of drivel about how much we owe the Capitol. There's probably more than what they're telling us, about what actually happened during the rebellion. But I never really spend much time thinking about it. Whatever it is, I don't see how it will help me get food on the table.

The train for the tributes is even fancier than the room in the JusticeBuilding. We are each assigned a living space which includes a bedroom, dressing room and a private bathroom with working hot and cold water. The only way we could get hot water at home is if we boiled it.

There are plenty of fine clothes stuffed in the drawers and Fifi says that I can do whatever I want, wear whatever I want. Everything is at my disposal. She just says that I have to be ready for supper in an hour. I slip off the red dress and step into the shower. I've never had a shower before. It's like warm summer rain. I end up dressing in a pale pink silk shirt and slightly darker trousers.

Just before I walk out of the door, I remember Sage's gold pin. I get a to look at it properly for the first time. It's a small golden bird with a ring attached around it. The bird is connected to the ring by only its wing tips and suddenly I recognise it. It's a mockingjay.

They're these funny little birds that are sort of t like s punch in the face to the Capitol. When the rebellion was going on, the Capitol produced many genetically engineered animals to use as weapons. They were commonly known as _Muttations _or sometimes just _Mutts. _One of these creatures was called a Jabberjay. These little birds could memorize and repeat whole human conversations. They were homing birds that were released into the districts where the Capitol's enemies were hiding. After the birds, which were usually male, collected speeches they'd return to the Capitol to be recorded. After a while, the people realised what was happening and the rebels fed the Capitol with endless lies. So the Capitol realised this and shut down the Jabberjay stations and the animals were released into the wild to die off.

However, they didn't die off. They mated with the female mockingbirds and created a whole new species that could replicate bird calls and human melodies. The Mockingjays. They had lost the technique of forming words but could still make a range of human sounds. Such as a children's cry or the deep tones of a man. They could also perform whole songs if you had the patience to sing to them and they liked your voice.

My father always liked Mockingjays. On hunts he would whistle or sing to them and after a slight pause they would always holler back. Not everyone is treated so well. But when my father sang, all the birds around him would stop and listen. His voice was so pure that it would make you want to laugh and cry at the same time. I could never really bring myself to sing after he died. Yet I still find comfort in that little bird. It's like I have a piece of my father with me. I pin the golden bird onto my shirt and slightly smile to myself.

Fifi Bouquet knocks on my door to collect me for supper. I walk behind her through the swaying corridor into a dining carriage with panelled walls. There's a table in the middle piled with a variety of fragile dishes. Tanner is sat there waiting for us, the seat beside him empty.

"Where's Barnaby?" Fifi chimes.

"He said he was going to take a nap the last time I saw him," Tanner says.

"Well it has been an exhausting day," Fifi sighs. I think she's a little bit glad that Barnaby's not here, but who could blame her?

The supper arrives in courses. A thick parsnip soup, fresh salad, pork chops and roasted potatoes, cheese and crackers, a fruit cake. After each serving, Fifi keeps reminding us that we shouldn't fill up because there's more to come. I don't listen though because I'm eating as much as possible. I've never had food like this, so good and so much. Anyway, putting on a few pounds between now and the games wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

"At least you two have decent manners," Fifi chirps, "last year the tributes stuffed themselves silly and shovelled up the food with their hands. It was horrible and it totally upset my digestion."

The tributes last year were both from the Seam and had probably never had enough to eat in their lives. So table manners didn't really have any importance to them in that moment. Tanner's a baker's son so he obviously can eat well. My mother also taught Molly and I to eat properly, so I can handle my cutlery. However, Fifi's comment annoyed me so much that I finished my meal using only my fingers. Once I'm done, I wipe my hands clean on the tablecloth and watch as she presses her lips together.

I'm having trouble keeping everything down now that the meal's over. I see that Tanner's looking a little green as well. We're not used to such rich food back in District Twelve. But if I can stomach Smokey Sally's winter special – mice meat, pig entrails and tree bark – then I am going to force myself to hang on to this.

We all go into another compartment to watch the recap of the reaping. When they replay the clips, they try to play them throughout the day, so that people could watch all of them if they pleased. But no one does that apart from members of the Capitol since they've never personally attended a reaping.

One after the other, we see the other reapings, the names called, the volunteers stepping forwards, or more often, not. We survey the other kids that will be our opponents. A few make an impression on me. A strong, rather monstrous boy from District Two who storms forwards to volunteer. A girl with sleek blonde hair from District Five who keeps letting out nervous giggles. A boy from District Ten with an injured foot. And a girl from District 11 with a round face. She has warm brown eyes and similar coloured hair. Apart from the difference in appearance, her demeanour reminds me so much of Molly. But there isn't a single person who steps up to volunteer for her. There's just the sound of the wind. Not a single person is willing to take her place.

Finally, they show District Twelve. Molly being called, me running up to volunteer. It's pretty clear to note the desperation in my voice when I push Molly behind me, it's as if I don't believe that anyone will hear me and they're going to take Molly away. But, obviously, the do hear. I see Brady taking her off as I climb onto the stage. The commentators don't really know what to say about the lack of applause. Then comes the silent salute. One of the commentators says that District Twelve has always been a little backward, but traditions are always charming. That's when Barnaby plummets off the stage and they all chortle away. Tanner's name is picked and he quietly took his place on the stage. We shake hands, the anthem plays and the screen cuts to black, signalling that the program is over.

Fifi was rather displeased by the state her wig was in. "I think that your mentor has a lot to learn about personal space and how he presents himself to the public eye."

"He was drunk," Tanner chuckles, "he's drunk every year."

"Every day." I let myself smile a little, but feel like it's more of a smirk.

Fifi makes it sound like Barnaby just has bad manners that could be sorted out by a few sessions with her. "Yes, it's odd how you find that amusing," she says, "You do realise that your mentor is the difference between life and death for you in the Games. They're the one who advises you, lines up sponsors and leads the presentation of any gifts. Barnaby will be your lifeline!"

As if on cue, Barnaby comes stumbling into the carriage.

"Did I miss supper?" His slurred voice followed by him vomiting all over the floor. To top it all off, he collapses in the mess a few seconds later.

"So laugh all you want!" Fifi shrieks and flees the room, hopping over the pool of sick on the carpet in her silly pointy shoes.

**I really hope you liked it!**

**I'll next be updating on the 15****th**** of June!**

**Thank you for reading and may the odds be ever in your favour!**

**-cherrygorilla**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello! **

**I hope you're having a good day!**

**If any of you read my other story then you might know that I didn't think I was going to be able to update today. But I worked really hard and here's the chapter!**

Tanner and I just stand there for a second, surveying the scene of our mentor trying to lift himself out of his own bile. The stench of the liquor and vomit almost brings up my dinner. We look at each other. Barnaby isn't much, but Fifi's right; when we step into that arena, he's all we've got. As if we've made some silent agreement, we each take one of Barnaby's arms and haul him to his feet.

"Did I trip?" Barnaby slurs. "Smells bad." He brings his arm across his face to wipe his nose and ends up smearing vomit all over his cheek.

"Let's get you to your room," Tanner says. "Maybe we can clean you up a bit."

We half take, half drag Barnaby back to his train carriage. We obviously can't plonk him onto the silk embroidered bed spread, so we end up lifting him into the bath and turn the shower head on him.

"It's alright," Tanner says. "I'll take it from here."

I'm a little relieved at this. Because the last thing I want to do is strip down Barnaby, wash the vomit out of his chest hair and put him into bed. There's always the possibility that Tanner's trying to get on his good side; to be his favourite once the Games begin though. But with the state he's in, I doubt he'll remember any of this tomorrow.

"Ok," I say. "I'll send one of the Capitol attendants to help." There's so many on this train. Cooking for us. Watching over us. Guarding us. Their job is to wait on us hand and foot.

"Don't. I don't need them," he says.

I just nod and go back to my room. I know how Tanner feels. I can't stand to look at them myself. But, in a way, making them deal with Barnaby is revenge. So I'm wondering why he wanted to take care of Barnaby when suddenly it clicks. _He's just being kind. Like when he gave me the bread._

The thought brings me up short. Right now, a kind Tanner Meddark is much more dangerous to me than an unkind one. People who are kind have a way of getting in my head and clinging there. And I can't allow Tanner to do that. Especially not where we're going. So I decide that from this moment on, I will have as least to do as possible with the baker's son.

When I reach my bedroom, the train has stopped to refuel. I slide open one of the windows and toss the cookies Tanner's father gave to me out before slamming it shut. No more of either of them.

The packet of cookies bursts open upon impact with the ground and spurts the cookies all over a patch of dandelions. How unfortunate. I can't get a proper look because the train starts up again. But I see enough to make the connection with the dandelion in the school yard all those years ago…

I had just looked away from Tanner Meddark's bruised face when I saw the dandelion that gave me hope. I plucked it from the ground and took it home. I snatched up a bucket and grabbed Molly's hand and hurried to the Meadow which was dotted with yellow-headed weeds. Once we had collected all of those, we collected all we could from around the fence until our bucket was overflowing with dandelion greens, stems and flowers. Later that night we stuffed ourselves with dandelion salad and finished the bakery bread.

"What else can we find?" Molly asked.

"Lots of things," I promised her. "I just have to remember them."

My mother owned a book from the apothecary shop. The parchment pages were scrawled with inkings of plants and clearly written boxes with their names in them. It also explained where to find them, what time of year they bloomed and their medical uses. My father also added things to the book. Not plants to heal with, but to eat. Dandelions, pokeweed, wild onions and pines. Molly and I spent the rest of the night repeatedly reading through those pages.

The next day, school was off. It took me a while to move from hanging around the meadow to ducking under the fence. It was the first time I'd been there by myself, without the protection of my father. I still took the small bow and arrows my father crafted for me from the hollow tree trunk, yet I don't think I went further than twenty metres into the forest that day. Most of the time I sat on one of the branches in a large oak tree, waiting to see if game came by. After a few hours, I managed to kill a rabbit. I'd done it before with my father, but this was the first time I'd done it on my own.

We had hardly seen meat for months. The sight seemed to trigger something in my mother though. She skinned the creature and made it into a stew which we ate along with some greens that Molly had gathered.

The woods became our way of survival after that. Each day I would bring myself to travel a little further into the unknown. I was determined to keep us alive. I stole eggs from nests, caught fish, gathered the plants that sprouted by my feet and sometimes had enough luck to shoot a rabbit or squirrel. However, plants aren't as simple as they seem. Most are completely safe, but if you eat the wrong one then you're dead. Literally. After double-checking every single plant I collected in my father's book, I managed to keep us alive.

Every time I heard a sound, a far away howl or a branch snapping and I would race back to the fence. But that was at first. Soon I began to climb trees to escape the wild dogs that moved on after a while. The bears and big cats lurked deeper into the forest, disliking the sooty air from our district.

On the 8th of May, I signed up for tesserae in the Justice Building and brought home the first batch of grain and oil in Molly's old wagon. After that, on the 8th day of every month, I would do exactly the same. I didn't stop my hunting and gathering though since the grain was not nearly enough to live on. Plus, there were other things to buy, like soap, milk and thread. Then, what we didn't have to eat, I would trade at the Hob. I was terrified to enter that place on my own, but since people had admired my father, I was accepted by them. Game was game, it didn't matter who'd shot it. I also sold to the wealthier citizen's back doors, using a few tricks my father had taught me. The butcher wouldn't buy squirrels with his wife around, but he did like rabbits. He would trade for squirrels if his wife wasn't there but otherwise he wouldn't. I also learned that the mayor loved strawberries and the head Peacekeeper loved wild turkeys.

Slowly but surely, our mother returned to us. She began to clean the house again and even started to preserve some of the game I had caught for the winter. People also began to pay her in exchange for medical remedies. One day, I even heard her singing.

Molly was delighted to have her back. But I wasn't so easily persuaded. I kept waiting for her to disappear on us again. A twisted part of me, deep down, still hated her for how she had neglected us for so long. Molly had forgiven her at once, but I wasn't so sure. There's still a barrier between my mother and I. Nothing has been the same since.

Now I'm going to die without our differences being settled. I kept being haunted about how I had yelled at her in the Justice Building. I told her I loved her as well so maybe that would make things better.

I just stand at the window for a while, wishing I could open it again. But I doubt it would be a good idea since we're travelling at such high speeds. I see the lights of another district approaching. Is it seven? Ten? I can't tell. I imagine all of the people in their houses settling down for the night. I think about my home, shutters on the window drawn. What are they doing now, Molly and my mother? Did they eat the supper of fish stew and strawberries? Could they bring themselves to? Or did it sit there on their plates, untouched. Did they watch the recap of the day's events on the rickety old TV sitting on the table in the corner of the room. There must have been more tears. Is my mother holding up for Molly? Or has she started to slip away, leaving the weight of the world on my little sister's dainty shoulders?

Molly will definitely crawl into my mother's bed tonight. The thought of that grizzly cat, Dusty, planting himself by my sister's side, watching over her, comforts me. If she cries, he'll worm his way into her arms and stay there until she calms down and drifts back to sleep. I'm relieved that I didn't drown him.

Thinking about my home hits me with loneliness. This day seems to have lasted forever. Were Brady and I snacking on blackberries just this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago. It feels like a long dream that has slowly deteriorated into a horrible nightmare. I keep hoping that if I go to sleep, maybe I'll wake back up in District Twelve. Where I belong.

The drawers are most likely stuffed with luxurious, silk nightgowns. But I just take off my top and trousers and climb into bed in my underwear. The sheets are soft and glossy and the thick, fluffy blanket warms me up almost straight away.

If I'm going to cry, I guess that now is the best time to do so. By the time morning comes I'll be able to wash away the damage from the tears. But none arrive. I'm too tired and too numb to cry. The only thing I feel certain of is that I want nothing more than to be somewhere else. So I allow the train to rattle me to sleep.

Dim sunlight is seeping through the curtains when a series of sharp knocks wakes me. I hear Fifi's voice calling me to get out of bed. "Up! Up! Up! It's going to be a grand, grand, grand day!" For just a moment I try and put myself in that woman's head. What thoughts must fill it during the hours of the day? What she dreams about at night? I honestly don't know.

I put the dusky pink outfit back on again because it's still relatively clean. It's just a little creased since it spent the night in a heap on the floor. My finger traces the gold mockingjay pin and it reminds me of the woods, of my father, of Molly and my mother waking up and having to carry on with their lives. I went to sleep in the complicated brad my mother had done for me for the reaping and it doesn't look too bad. So I just leave it like that. It's not like it matters. We can't be far away from the Capitol now. And once we arrive my stylist will prepare me for the opening ceremonies this evening anyway. I'm just praying that I don't get one who thinks that nudity is the height of fashion.

As I go into the dining car, Fifi trots past me carrying a cup strong black coffee. She's muttering about something under her breath but I don't pause to listen. Barnaby is chuckling, his face red and bloated from last night. Tanner is holding a bread roll and looking slightly embarrassed.

"Sit down," Barnaby laughs, motioning for me to come over. The second I slide into my seat, I am served with a huge platter of food. Fried potatoes, eggs, ham. A container of fruit sits in a bucket of ice to keep it cold. The basket of bread they put in front of me could keep my family going for a week. There's also a fancy glass of orange juice. At least I think it's orange juice. I've only tried on once, on New Years Day when my father brought one home for us. There's a cup of coffee too. My mother loves coffee, but we could very rarely afford it. To me it's just thin and bitter. And there is a cup of rich brown liquid of which I have never come into contact with before.

"They call it hot chocolate," Tanner explains, as if reading my mind. "It's nice."

I take a sip of the hot, creamy liquid and a shiver runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal is calling to me, I ignore it until I have completely drained my cup. Then I stuff myself until I'm full, which means I have eaten a substantial amount. But I'm careful not to eat too much of the richer stuff. I remember my mother telling me once that I eat like I'll never see food again. I retorted with, "I won't unless I bring it home." That shut her up.

When my stomach feels like it's going to explode, I sit back and observe my breakfast companions. Tanner is still eating, ripping apart the bread rolls and dunking the pieces into his hot chocolate. Barnaby hasn't really touched his plate, but he is drowning himself in some sort of red liquid he is thinning down with a clear spirit. I can tell it's alcohol from the fumes. I don't really know Barnaby, but I've seen him throwing money onto the counter of the woman who sells white liquor in the Hob enough times to know that he'll be delirious by the time we arrive at the Capitol.

I understand now that I can't stand Barnaby. It's no wonder the tributes from District Twelve never stand a chance. It's not he fact that we're underfed and have had a lack of training. Some of them have had enough strength to have a go. But we rarely get sponsors and he's the reason why. The wealthy people who back tributes – either for the fact that they're betting on them or whether they just want to brag about picking the winner – normally expect to deal with someone a little more sophisticated than Barnaby.

"So you're supposed to give us advice," I say, catching Barnaby's attention.

"Here's your advice. Stay alive," Barnaby slurs, and then bursts out laughing. I glance at Tanner before remembering that I'm not having anything to do with him. I'm shocked to see the sternness in his eyes. Normally he appears so mild.

"That's hilarious," Tanner says. Then he lashes out and knocks Barnaby's glass to the floor. It shatters and sends the splinters of glass and oozing red liquid to run to the back of the train. "Just not to us."

Barnaby seems t process the comment for a bit, then punches Tanner in the jaw, knocking him from his chair. When he reaches back out to the spirits I slam the blade of my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, millimetres from missing his fingers. I brace myself for his hit, however it never arrives. Instead he leans back and stares at us.

"Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" Barnaby asks.

Tanner gets up from his spot on the floor and picks up a handful of ice from the bucket for the fruit. He raises his hand to hold it against the red mark on his jaw but Barnaby stops him.

"No," he barks. "Let the bruise show. The audience will think that you've been getting at another tribute before you've even made it into the arena."

"That's against the rules," Tanner argues.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will show that you fought, but weren't caught. That's even better," Barnaby says. Then he turns to me. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides the table?"

A bow and arrow is my weapon. But I have spent a while throwing knives too. Sometimes, if I've wounded an animal with an arrow, it's usually better to finish it off with a knife, before I approach it. I realise that if I want Barnaby's attention, now's the time to get it. I rip the knife out of the table, get a solid grip on the handle and fling it across the room. I was hoping that it would stick into the wall but it lodges itself in the middle of two panels, making it look like I'm a lot better than I actually am.

"Both of you stand over here," Barnaby says, nodding towards the middle of the room. We obey him and he begins to circle us. He prods at our muscles, examines our physique and checks our faces. "You're not completely useless. You seem fit. And when the stylists get their hands on you, you'll be attractive enough."

Neither Tanner or I object to this. The Hunger Games are not a beauty pageant, but the better looking tributes get more sponsors.

"Ok, I'll make a deal with you. I'll stay sober enough to help you as long as you don't interfere with my drinking," Barnaby says. "But you must do exactly as I say."

It's not much of a deal, but it's a massive improvement from ten minutes ago.

"Fine," Tanner agrees.

"So help us," I say. "When we get into the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone-"

"Take it slowly, not everything at once, We'll be at the station in a couple of minutes, then you'll be handed over to your stylists. You're probably not going to like what they do to you, but don't resist. Whatever they do, let them do it," Barnaby says.

"But what-" I start.

"Don't resist," Barnaby interrupts. He picks up the bottle of liquor from the table, the liquid inside sloshing around as he does so, and leaves the car. The car plunges us into darkness as the door slides closed behind him. A few lights are still flickering on the train but outside it's as if night has fallen. This means that we're probably in the tunnel that winds through the mountains and leads to the Capitol. The mountains are the barriers between the Capitol and the districts. It's almost impossible to enter either side if you don't go through the tunnels. The geographical advantage that the Capitol has was a big factor in why the districts lost the war. That's also the reason why I'm here on this train as a tribute today. The rebels had the difficult task of scaling the massive mountains, but that also made them a target for Capitol air forces.

Tanner and I stand there in silence as the train rattles along at top speed. As the tunnel stretches in front of us, I start to think of how much rock is above us. How much there is that separates me from the sky. Just the thought makes my heart jump. I feel trapped under all of this stone. I feel like my father, stuck in the mines. Unable to reach sunlight and fresh air, buried forever in darkness.

Blindingly bright light washes into the carriage as the train slows and we emerge from the tunnel. Tanner and I can't help but run to the window and take in the sight of what we've only seen on a screen. The Capitol, the ruling city of Panem. It's splendour was not embellished by the cameras. If anything, the cameras didn't capture it's beauty. Not the modern, polished cars that cruise down the paved streets. Or the magnificent, glass buildings that soared up into the clouds. And certainly not the people who paraded around in their elaborate fashions of painted faces, rainbow hairdos and surgically transformed features. The colours remind me of the hard-boiled sweets in the sweetshop back in District Twelve. The pinks too dark, the yellows too vibrant and the greens so bright they hurt your eyes.

The people start to point and wave at us since they recognise the tribute train. I take a step back from the window, horrified that they're excited to watch us die. But Tanner stays, smiling and waving back at the crazed crowds. He finally stops when we pull into the station, blocked from their view.

Tanner catches me staring and gives me a lop-sided smile. "Who knows," he says. "Maybe one of them is rich."

Oh. I've definitely misjudged him. I play back all of his actions since the reaping. The squeeze of my hand and friendly twinkle in his eye. His father turns up with cookies and promises that he'll keep my sister fed…did Tanner put him up to that? The tears he wore with pride at the station. His act of helping Barnaby last night, but this morning when his 'nice guy' act had failed, lashing out at him. And now trying to win over the crowd with his charm.

All of the pieces are still trying to align but I sense that he's forming a plan. He has in no way accepted his imminent death. He's started fighting to prevent it already. But this means that Tanner Meddark, the boy with the bread, is fighting hard to kill me.

**I really hope you liked it!**

**I'll next be updating on the 29****th**** of June!**

**Thank you for reading and may the odds be ever in your favour!**

**-cherrygorilla**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello! **

**I hope you're having a good day!**

**Here's the next chapter! **

_R-i-i-i-p! _I clamp my lips together as Volie, a woman with silver tattoos by her temples, pulls a fabric strip from my leg, taking the hair from underneath with it.

"Oops!" She trills in her stupid Capitol accent. "There's just so much hair!"

Why are these people's voices so high? And they hardly move their mouths when they speak. Worst of all, their voices go up at the end of every sentence as if they're asking a question. They hiss their letter 's', they clip the ends of letters…how could anyone not mimic them?

Volie attempts to make a sympathetic face. "But good news," she says. "This is the last one! Are you ready?"

I nod at her and grip the edge of the table I'm laid on. With an agonizing jolt, the last of my leg hair is removed.

I've been in the Remake Centre for over three hours without even getting a glimpse of my stylist yet. Apparently he didn't want to see me until Volie and the others were done. This process involved being scrubbed down with a grainy liquid that took of dirt and most of my skin, rounding off my finger nails and being stripped of any body hair. Legs, arms, torso, even between my eyes brows. Overall, now I feel like a plucked bird. And I don't like it. My skin feels tender and vulnerable, but I haven't uttered a word of objection. I've kept my promise with Barnaby.

"You're coping well," a man named Flovio, running his hands through his mass of lime green frizzy hair. "We can't stand a whiner! Now, grease her."

Volie and Octalia, a stocky woman who dyed her entire body a baby blue colour, rub a stinging lotion that eventually soothes me all over my body. I then stand there in the thin robe that I've been allowed to wear whilst they circle me, tweezers in hand, ready to pluck out any stray hairs. I don't feel as embarrassed as I should though, the three of them just remind me of brightly coloured birds.

The trio step back and admire their finished product. i.e. Me. "Amazing! You actually look like a human now!" Flovio's comment is followed by a round of giggles from the three of them.

"Thank you," I say, forcing myself to send them a sweet smile to show my gratitude. "We don't have much opportunity to be pretty in District Twelve."

"Oh you poor darling! Of course you don't!" They gush, my comment completely winning them over.

"But you'll be stunning once Chryser's done with you! Don't worry!" Volie exclaims.

"You're not awful anymore since we got rid of all the dirt and hair!" Flovio cries. "Let's call Chryser."  
They scurry out of the room shortly afterwards. It's hard not to like my prep team because of their over all ditzy personalities and yet, I honestly believe that they are trying to help me.

I stare at the blank, light grey walls and try to keep my mind clear. I wrap the flimsy robe around myself protectively because when my stylist, Chrysler, comes in he'll probably make me remove it. My fingers somehow reach my hairdo, which is the only part of me that my prep team was told not to touch. My fingers trace the intricate pattern my mother had worked so carefully on. My mother. I left her red and white dress in the train, on the floor of my car. I had never even thought about retrieving it, keeping a piece of her to hold on to, a piece of home. The yearning for them over takes all my other emotions right now.

The doors swing open and a young man, who I'm guessing is Chryser, walks in. It's a little concerning how normal he looks since most of the stylists who are interviewed on TV are so dyed, tattooed and surgically altered that they don't look human anymore. But Chryser's short, cropped hair seems to be a natural dark brown and his black shirt and trousers combo doesn't seem too flamboyant either. The only thing out of the ordinary is his careful flick of silver eyeliner. It brings out the specks of blue in his grey eyes and although I hate the Capitol citizens for the way they dress, I can't help but think that he looks striking.

"Hello Lela. I'm Chryser, your stylist," he says. His voice is husky and calm, so unlike the normal Capitol mannerisms.

"Hello," I croak, trying not to show how nervous I am.

"Could you just give me a moment?" He asks, starting to circle me. He's taking in every centimetre of my body and I have to restrain myself from wrapping my robe tighter around myself. "Who did your hair?" He questions.

"My mother," I reply, my voice slightly cracking.

"It's beautifully classical. Very clever fingers crafted this. It captures your profile perfectly."

I had expected an over-the-top diva who was much older than they were acting. Someone who viewed me as an object that they had to prepare for a display. Yet Chryser isn't any of these.

"Are you new. I haven't seen you before," I blurt, not really thinking about what I'm saying. But most of the stylists are regulars and are on call every year.

"Yes, this is my first year in the Games."

"So you got District Twelve?" I ask. The newcomers normally get given the least desirable district. Which I'm guessing is us.

"No, I asked for District Twelve," he says simply. "Sit down, let's have a chat."

I quietly follow him through a doorway that leads to a sitting room. Two velvet couches face each other with a low table in between. Three of the walls are completely blank but the fourth is a sheet of glass, giving us a window to the city. The sky is slightly overcast but I can still tell that it's around noon. Chryser takes his place on the couch opposite me and motions for me to sit. He presses a button on the couch arm and a second table rises from the ground, baring our lunch. Chunks of chicken and gratings of orange rind are mixed into a creamy sauce that is laid on top of a bed of pure, white grain, miniature peas and onions. There are fresh bread rolls as well and a honey pudding for desert.

I try and picture how I would prepare this meal back at home. We couldn't afford chicken, but perhaps a wild turkey would do. I would have to catch an extra turkey so I could trade it for an orange. The cream would have to be substituted by goat's milk and I'd have to grow the peas and collect wild onions in the woods. But I don't know what the grain is. The tesserae we receive is more like brown slop when you've cooked it. To get the rolls I would probably have to trade a couple of squirrels with the baker and I can't even begin to fathom out what is in the pudding. This meal would take days of hunting and preparation and even then it would not live up to the Capitol version.

I think about what it must be like, to live in a place where food appears at the press of a button. How would I spend my days since all I do now is hunt and gather to keep us alive. But that wouldn't be necessary because everything is so easy to come by here. What does everyone do here all day? Well, besides modifying their bodies and waiting for tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment.

I look up from my lap and find that Chryser's staring at me.

"How despicable we must seem to you," he says.

Can he read my expression or does he break into my thoughts. He's not wrong though. The lot of them disgust me.

"No matter," he continues. "So, Lela, let's discuss your costume for the opening ceremonies. Partia, my partner, is the stylist for your fellow tribute, Tanner. Our thought was to make sure that your costumes are complimentary. But it's also a must that we make them relatable to your district."

For the opening ceremony, each tribute is supposed to wear something that reflects the main export from their district. District 11 is agriculture. District 4 is fishing. District 3 have factories. But this means that since Tanner and I come from District 12, we will be wearing some sort of coal miner's uniform. But the baggy jumpsuits aren't very attractive so the tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and head lamps. I remember one year when they were stark naked and powdered with coal dust. I really hope that this year isn't like that. It never wins over the crowd and isn't appealing at all. But I have to prepare myself for the worst.

"So I'm wearing a coal miner's outfit?" I ask, hoping for a modest version.

"Not really. Partia and I think that the coal miner look is overdone. You won't be remembered by wearing overalls. And we believe that it's our responsibility to make you two look unforgettable," Chryser says.

_Oh gosh. I'm definitely going to be naked. _I think.

"So rather than focusing on mining the coal. We are focusing on the coal itself," Chryser explains.

_Right. Naked and covered in coal dust it is. _I think.

"And what do you do with coal? You burn it," Chryser says. "You're not afraid of a little fire are you Lela?"

He grins once he notes my expression.

A few hours later, I am in a costume that could either be the most spectacular or the deadliest in the entire opening ceremony. It's a jet black unitard that covers every inch of my skin from my ankles to my neck that compliments my raven hair. Patent leather boots are laced up to my knees. But a fluttering headdress an cape of yellow, orange and red strands are what make the outfit. However the excitement doesn't stop there, Chryser plans to set them on fire as we roll out onto the streets.

"It's not a real flame, just a fake fire that Partia and I created for this. It's perfectly safe," Chryser reassures. But I'm not sure. I'm still nervous that I'll have been roasted alive by the time I reach the city centre.

My face is relatively bare of makeup, with a touch of highlighter. My hair has been brushed and tied back like usual so that it's away from my face.

"I want everyone to recognise you when you're in the arena," Chryser explains, referencing why my makeup is so plain. "Lela, the girl who was on fire."

The thought that this calm and collected aura may just be a mask for the madman he is crosses my mind. But only for a second.

Although I came to the alarming conclusion of Tanner's personality this morning, it relieves me to see him dressed in the exact same costume as me. He should have had experience with fire since he's a baker's son. Partia, his stylist, and her team arrive as well and everyone starts getting flustered and giddy with excitement over what an impression we'll make. Except for Chryser, he seems a little distant whilst he accepts the congratulations.

We're taken down to the ground level of the Remake Centre, that is basically a stable. Pairs of tributes are being placed on chariots pulled by four horses each. Our horses are as black as coal. The horses have been trained so well that reigns aren't required. Chryser and Partia take us to our chariot and make sure that we're positioned correctly and that our capes fall in the right direction. Then they go off to the side and consult with each other.

"What do you think about the fire?" I whisper to Tanner.

"I'll rip your cape off if you rip off mine," he says, keeping a solemn face.

"Sure," I agree. If we can get them off quick enough we can avoid the worst of the burns. It's not a good situation to be in though. They're going to put us into the arena no matter what condition we're in. "Look, I know we promised Barnaby that we wouldn't complain about what our stylists did, but I don't think he considered this."

"Speaking of Barnaby where is he? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" Tanner asks.

"With all of the alcohol he's consumed, it's probably not safe for him to be around an open flame," I joke.

And suddenly we're both laughing. I guess that we're not acting very sensibly because we're nervous. Anyone would be if they were going to be turned into a human torch and then placed in an arena to fight to the death.

Then music blares out of the speakers, signalling the start of the opening ceremony. Huge doors slide open and reveal a street lined with massive crowds. The journey lasts around twenty minutes, with the tributes ending up at the City Circle. There, we will be welcomed, the anthem will play and we'll be taken into the Training Centre. Which will be our 'home' (which is more like a prison) until the Games start.

Four snow white horses pull the chariot containing the District One tributes. They shimmer with silver powder and matching tunics that are laden with jewels. They look beautiful. District One provides the Capitol with luxury items so they're always favourites in the Games.

District Two gets in line to follow them and before I know it, we're lining up to roll out. The sky is just turning grey, which signals that night is drawing in. The District Eleven tributes are rolling out when Chryser appears with a lit torch. "Here we go," he says. Before we get the chance to react, our capes are alight. A gasp escapes my throat as I wait for the heat, but only a faint tickling sensation appears. Chryser climbs up in front of us and sets our headdresses on fire too. He sighs and looks relieved, "It works." He places his hand under my chin, "Remember, heads high and don't forget to smile. They're going to love you!"

Chryser hops of the chariot and stands back, but then he gets another idea. Just as he starts to speak, the music drowns him out. So he jumps and gestures.

"What's he trying to say?" I ask Tanner. This time, when I look at him, for the first time I see how dazzling he is with the flames. I then realize that I must be too.

"I think he's saying that we should hold hands," Tanner explains. He grabs my right hand with his left, and we look over at Chryser for approval. He nods and gives us a thumbs up. And that's the last thing I see before we roll onto the streets.

Initially, the crowd are alarmed, but soon their cries of shock turn to cries of delight and shouts of, "District Twelve!" Every head is snapping towards us, pulling the attention away from the three chariots in front. At first I'm frozen from all of the attention, but then I catch sight of Tanner and I on one of the broadcasting screens and I'm blown away with how breath-taking we look. In the early twilight, the fire illuminates our faces, casting shadows over our features. Our capes flutter out behind us, leaving a trail of fire. Chryser was right about the minimal makeup, we both look amazing but totally recognizable.

_Remember, heads high. Don't forget to smile. They're going to love you! _I hear Chryser's voice in my head. I tilt my chin upwards, put on my best winning smile and wave with my free hand. Now I'm glad that I have Tanner to hold onto for balance. I gain more and more confidence as the journey drags on and I actually start to blow a few kisses to the crowd. The crowd are going wild, screaming our names, our first names which they bothered to look up in the program and showering us with gifts and flowers. I can't hide my excitement anymore, with the pounding music, the cheers and the admiration all working their way into my system. Chryser has given me a massive advantage. No one will forget me now. I'm Lela, the girl on fire.

For the first time, I feel like there's hope. Surely there'll be one sponsor willing to spend some of their money for my survival. With a little bit of food, a good weapon and some extra help, I shouldn't count myself out of the Games yet.

A red rose is tossed in my direction from the crowd. I catch it, give it a delicate sniff and blow a kiss in the direction it came from. A hundred hands grasp at the air, as if my kiss was an actual object.

"Lela! Lela!" I hear my name being called out. It seems that everyone wants my kisses.

It's not until we reach the City Centre that I realise that I might have cut off the circulation to Tanner's hand. I've been squeezing it tight the whole way. I look down at our linked hands and loosen my grip, but Tanner just holds on firmer.

"No, don't let go," Tanner says. The light from the fire flickers around his blue eyes. "Seriously. I might fall off this thing."

"Alright," I say. So I keep my grasp on his hand, but I can't help but feel strange about the way Chryser has linked us. It's not fair to introduce us as a team and then break that when we're put into an arena to kill each other. The twelve chariots form a semi circle in the City Circle with buildings surrounding us. The buildings are packed with the highest classes of Capitol citizens who obviously deserve the best view. Our chariot comes to a halt and the music ends.

The president, a tall, slender man with dark hair, gives us the official welcome from the balcony of his mansion above us. During the speech, the cameras always hover over tributes' faces to catch their expressions. But Tanner and I are getting much more camera time than anyone else. As the sun sets further, it gets more and more difficult to draw your eyes away from our blaze. When the anthem plays, they make an effort to cut to each of the tributes. But as the chariots make their final loop around the City Circle, the camera pans back to us until we disappear into the Training Centre. The doors have barely closed behind our chariot when our prep teams swarm us, all squealing about our performance. As they speak, I glance around at the other tributes. Most of them are giving us dirty looks, which confirms what I thought; we've outshone them all, literally. Then Chryser and Partia arrive, helping us dismount from the chariot and carefully taking off our headdresses and capes. Partia drops them on the ground and sprays them with a substance from a canister, before lightly stamping on them to extinguish all of the flames. I realise that I'm still attached to Tanner and prise my fingers apart from his. We both rub our hands so that we can regain the feeling in them.

"Thanks for holding onto me, I was feeling a little shaky back there," Tanner says.

"You couldn't tell," I reassure him. "No one noticed."

"I don't think anyone noticed anything but you. You should wear fire more often," Tanner says. Then he smiles at me. His smile has just the right amount of sweetness with the littlest hint of shyness. It gives me a rush of warmth when he shows me it.

An alarms rings out in my head. _Don't be so idiotic. He's planning to kill you, _I remind myself. _He's acting nice to lure you in. He's making you easy prey. The more likeable he seems, the more deadly he really is. _

But two can play at this game. So I rise up onto my tiptoes and plant a kiss on his cheek. Right on his bruise.

**I really hope you liked it!**

**I won't be updating next until the 27****th**** of July because I'm going on holiday. Sorry to disappoint you! :(**

**Thank you for reading and may the odds be ever in your favour!**

**-cherrygorilla**


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